


I Bet You Didn’t Know Someone Could Love You This Much

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bethyl Smut Week, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Improvised Sex Toys, Mutual Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's back from hunting earlier than expected, with a prize to show off to Beth. Throw in an unexpectedly open door, weeks of tension, a very different kind of showing off, and a decision to not walk away, and... Well. Watch what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another Bethyl Smut Week deal. Began as writing to one prompt, and then I realized another prompt I got worked perfectly as a second chapter. So that's what this is. 
> 
> First prompt: _Daryl and Beth are at the funeral home, starting to settle in. They have separate rooms upstairs for some privacy if need be. They also have urges. So Beth masturbates, while Daryl is hunting - or so she thinks. And Daryl masturbates, watching her - secretly, or so HE thinks. But Beth finds out. Also finds out she quite likes it. So she puts on a little bit of a show for him, maybe using props she finds at the funeral home. Who knew candles were good for more than burning?_
> 
> Enjoy. ❤️

Honest to Christ _wild turkey._

They’ve gotten lucky with game before. He’s gotten grouse, deer aren’t that hard to come by and mourning doves are tasty when cooked up right. And with an actual kitchen to work with, what they’ve eaten over the last couple of weeks has come to resemble a series of recognizable _meals._ He finds edible greens in the forest, and there’s a small garden around the side of the house - not as well tended as the rest of the place, but it’s by no means dead, and he’s living with a farm girl.

They’re doing much better than _surviving._ He lies in his bed at night - _his_ bed in _his_ room, because they figured once they established a certain level of safety that making camp in the parlor by the fireplace didn’t make a lot of sense and they moved upstairs - and for the first time in longer than he can remember he dares to think about the future. The future beyond the next day, or the day after that.

He falls asleep in a narrow bed that smells pleasantly of dust and old lace and candle wax, and he thinks strangely of her hair in the firelight. And he sleeps well and he doesn’t wake up hungry and afraid.

He wakes up and he eats breakfast with her and they just… live.

They’re all right.

And now he has a goddamn wild turkey, which he hasn’t seen in months. _Fat_ one. Only half an hour out in the woods and he got superbly lucky, and he’s actually almost grinning when he steps over the sound trap and pushes the door open, carries the thing to the kitchen slung over his shoulder and - because he can’t think of anywhere else to put it - leaves it lying in state on the table.

She’ll pluck it, clean it. He’ll help her. They’ll make a fire outside, spit the thing and roast it. They’ll have themselves a real fucking turkey dinner, even if there’s no mashed potatoes and gravy.

He shouldn’t be proud of himself, not really. It was nine tenths luck. He just happened to be in the exact right place at the exact right time, seeing it bumble out of the undergrowth directly into his sights. But he _is,_ he is proud of himself, and he wants to bring her down here and show her.

Wants to surprise her, or he would have been calling her name the second he came in.

When he left she said something about a headache, about napping, and the lack of her obvious presence indicates that she’s still up there.

There were three bedrooms to choose from when it came time to make a choice: One master bedroom with a brass queen bedstead, two smaller ones with singles - all full of creaking antiques and thin, soft fabric and portraits of dead people on the walls. He made her take the bigger one while he grabbed the more comfortable of the two remaining, and he never explained himself, and when she protested he wore her down. Now he’s listening for her as he climbs the groaning steps - fuck, don’t even need a sound trap inside - and for any indication of consciousness. There’s none; her room is the one at the end of the long, dim hallway, and as he crests the top step and heads toward it he sees a crack of brightness between the door and the frame.

She didn’t close it completely.

He stops, is raising a hand to knock - not loudly, if she’s deeper than drowsing he doesn’t want to wake her with something that can wait - when he just happens turn his head at an angle that allows him to see the bed through the crack in the door, and at the same moment he hears a quiet little sigh.

Every cell in him crystallizes. His knuckle freezes in mid-tap centimeters from the door. Exact wrong place. Exact wrong time.

_Fuck._

Mid-morning sunlight is spilling across the bed. Pouring across it, making the brass shine and soaking the old sheets - washed and aged well beyond whiteness. It’s one of the reasons why he wanted her to have this room, though he never told her even that much: In the morning it gets all the light. He thought - in the most innocent possible way - about her sleeping bathed in sunrise, and he _needed_ her to be there. He couldn’t exist in a world where it wasn’t so.

It wouldn’t be right.

Now she’s bathed in it, sprawled on her back across the bed with the rumpled sheets pushed down toward the foot, her skin glowing and its warmth palpable from across the fucking room. He can feel her under his hands - hanging loose and otherwise numb at his sides - and he stares at her, jaw slack, as she hums softly and trails her fingers down over her bare little breasts, fingertips toying with her flushed pink nipples.

She’s naked. Completely. Naked and arching under her own touch and _luxuriating_ in it, _fuck,_ he’s never seen anything like it. Naked with her legs slightly spread, knees bent, and the bed faces the door at such an angle that he can just catch a glimpse of tight curls, see the sheen of wet on her…

All the blood surges out of his legs and he almost falls, clutches the doorframe for support, bites down hard on his lip to keep back a sound. He doesn’t know what sound it would be if he let it out. Doesn’t want to. Oh my God.

Oh my _God._

He needs to turn around right now. He needs to get out of here _right fucking now._ This is exactly where he needs to _not_ be, _not ever._ He needs to go downstairs and find some way to distract himself while he attempts to totally purge this from his memory for all time.

He needs to and he’s not.

What he’s doing is looking at her. Not moving, not breathing, not even fucking _blinking_. He’s looking at her and he’s looking at _all_ of her, that small body he knows very well by now, small but strong, powerful. Slender arms and graceful legs nevertheless tight with muscle beneath her skin. Long waist, flat belly, and a swell at her hips falling into a full curve at her thighs. Her breasts - he’s never really looked at them before, why would he, but now he sees them and it’s hard to see anything else. Small, very, but so perfect, fitting her so well, and his spine coils itself into a spring as she takes her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and pinches.

She sucks in a little gasp and he almost falls again.

This is so horrible. He’s so horrible.

He leans closer.

He’s never looked at anyone like this. _Anyone._ He can’t remember ever _wanting_ to. And it’s _Beth,_ and that’s just… Yet here she is, thighs rubbing against each other as she teases herself and rolls her head slightly, her hair a gold sunflare over the pillow, her eyes closed and her lips parted and wet.

She cups herself, kneads and moans, and that’s when he truly understands that he’s fucked.

That moan. Because it breaks something in him and he’s abruptly aware of where all that blood in his legs went, where it is now and what it’s doing. He’s so _hard,_ doesn’t know when this last happened either, hot and aching and straining against his zipper. It’s instinct and only after it’s far too late does it hit him what _he’s_ doing, but he drops his free hand between his thighs and palms himself, squeezes, forces back a groan when all that heat pulses up through his arteries and just about sets his fucking hair on fire.

She moans again, rolls her back and then her hips in a smooth sine wave, and as she does her legs fall open and he sees her fully through the brass bars: Her inner lips glistening in the nest of her curls, dark and plump and so _wet._

It’s not like he’s never seen a cunt before. But he might as well not have.

He leans the side of his head against the doorframe and doesn’t stop moving. He kneads himself like she’s kneading her tits, gnawing at the insides of his cheeks, and he doesn’t stop when she releases herself and her hands begin to roam downward. Over her ribs, stroking her own skin like she has nowhere to go in any hurry, her breath coming in those heady sighs punctuated by rougher edges of sound.

He knows where she’s going, how the fuck could he _not,_ but somehow every second of this is shocking. Every second of it is a revelation. His blood is a storm in his veins, crashing thunder and lightning, and when he starts to undo his belt and fly with thick, stupid fingers, it feels like it was inevitable.

It’s a force beyond him.

Her breath is coming faster and rougher as she reaches her lower belly and spreads her legs wide, and his shameless fingers are slipping into his jeans and curving around his shaft as her own reach her bush and pet it, her hips canting hungrily upward as if she’s denying herself something.

He _can’t,_ some remaining sane fragment of his mind is screaming at him. This is appalling. He can’t do this. How the fuck is he ever going to look her in the eye afterward? He might be able to save himself if he zips up and evacuates the premises _now,_ but his fingers are tracing the cramped length of his cock, the blood thrumming under stretched skin.

No, it’s too late. He’s fucked.

He doesn’t draw himself out until her fingertips finally settle over her clit, as if her sharper gasp gives him permission. He takes his cock in his hand, vaguely aware of his own rough palm as he grips and squeezes, and it _hurts_ when she starts to circle her fingers, starts to moan in earnest. Her other hand has returned to her breast, her nipple, and she’s tweaking it, twisting in a way that looks like it might be painful. The expression on her face is almost like pain, but not, not at all; she plays with her little clit and torments herself and the sounds pushing out of her are tense and ragged, and the one mercy here is that when he gives himself a hard stroke his broken groan is lost under them.

Fuck, please let it be.

He’s never seen a woman do this. Not in person. Never watched, never seen someone _enjoying_ themselves like this. That alone is stunning, that she clearly loves her own body this way, that she’s making herself feel so good. It’s all for her. It’s not maintenance. She’s laid out in the sun in a soft bed and she’s taking her time.

It’s beautiful.

Her cunt squelches wet when she pushes a finger in, a low cry bursting out of her, and part of him wants to weep at it as his hand falls into a steady rhythm, precome smeared at the edges of his forefinger and thumb. It’s been such a long time since he did this too, such a long time since he _wanted_ to, and it’s never felt like this, like her pleasure is contagious. She’s clutching at her tit as she fucks herself in firm slides of her hand that almost match his, her fingers shining and that squelch ringing off the walls, and when she adds a second finger he presses his mouth against the back of his knuckles and bites down hard.

But he’s not in time. And this groan was louder than all the others.

All at once it’s a nightmare.

She freezes. Stops dead with her fingers deep in her cunt, panting at the ceiling, her eyes gone wide. His brain is blasting panic, terror and arousal so hopelessly confused that none of his body has any idea what to do. He’s fucked, he’s _fucked,_ and if he jams his dick back into his jeans and _runs_ he might be able to at least prevent this from becoming totally unbearable. He might not have to wander off into the woods to die of sheer mortification.

He might not have destroyed the best thing that ever happened to him. Because he literally can’t keep his dick in his pants.

Honestly not a problem he ever saw himself having.

There’s no way to apologize for this. None. Yet he’s _standing_ there, cock in his hand, still hard and throbbing and seething just under his skin. And she hasn’t moved either - she’s taking slow, deep breaths, her eyes falling closed.

Maybe she’s giving him an out. Maybe she’s that kind. Maybe she’ll stay there until he withdraws, and later… God, maybe she’ll even pretend it didn’t happen.

That would be so sweet, and so like her. Even if it wouldn’t remotely work.

And she moves.

His whole body twitches. It’s fear, the snapping release of wound tension, but he still isn’t leaving. Because she’s not getting up. She’s not fumbling for the covers or her clothes, or coming toward the door to demand to know what the fuck he thinks he’s _doing._

She’s raising her sticky fingers to her lips and sucking them clean.

She takes her time with this too. She _relishes_ it. Seems to love it. She sucks them together and then each individually, licking all the way down to the gap between them, humming as she does. Like it’s delicious. Like it’s dessert. And fuck, _what the fuck,_ his mouth is watering and all he can think about is being there, _being there,_ her fingers on his tongue and what it would be like to clean them for her, lick up every drop and kiss her fingertips when he’s done.

His hand is motionless on his cock but for the moment he doesn’t even notice.

Then she rolls to the side and he does.

There’s a candleholder by the bed - one of those old fashioned ones with a well to catch the wax and a loop to slide a finger through. Beside it are some spares, clean and unused, and she picks one of these up and returns to her back. For a few seconds he’s actually confused - and then she’s slipping it between her thighs and using the fingers of her other hand to spread her lips open, revealing lighter glistening pink. His mouth has gone dry, everything is dry, he’s a cracked desert but for the thunderstorm under his hand, but his eyes and mouth literally flood wet all over again when she pushes the candle slowly into her cunt with a long, trembling moan.

She keeps that slowness at first. Draws it out and presses it back in, whimpering as her head falls back again, but in less than a minute she rises to speed and is fucking herself in quick, deep thrusts, matching the rhythm with soft little moans. He isn’t moving at all, gripping himself and half lost in heated, needy misery, but it breaks like a stormcloud when she hauls in a breath and groans a single word.

“Daryl.”

Panic again. Utter panic. In his head he’s reeling back and in his body his paralysis is, if anything, solidified. But she can’t mean him. Not- Not _him,_ not as he’s standing here; that’s ridiculous. If she knew he was here she sure as fuck wouldn’t be doing _this._

It’s something else.

“Just-just like that. _Oh._ ” Faster, her face almost pained, her tight whispers nearly drowned out by the slurping of the candle pumping in and out of her. “Oh my God, Daryl…” Her other hand glides down her body and joins the first, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in rapid circles as she fucks herself even harder. “Daryl, that’s so _good…_ ”

His hand has taken over for his brain. Fuck it, this is an _invitation._ It’s not and that’s horrible too but he’s so hard it hurts, so hard he can’t stand it anymore, and he jerks himself in rough, smacking strokes as her moans rise to a crescendo.

“Daryl, I’m… I’m… God, I’m gonna _come,_ Daryl, I-I’m gonna- Oh _Christ-_ ”

She snaps her whole body back and up with a cry that seems to begin in her cunt and rocket up through her throat, her hips bucking as both hands work herself frantically through it, and he sees her slick thighs and slick lips and slick fingers, her whole body an explosion of brazen pleasure, and he’s biting his hand again to muffle what feels like a shout as he comes so hard he spatters the fucking door, his hand, dripping onto the floor below.

Then silence. Except for her heavy, panting breaths. Except for his.

What he’s done.

Numbly, he releases his softening dick and raises his hand, staring at the milky fluid streaked over it, stretching in cobweb strands between his fingers when he spreads them. As if he doesn’t understand. Because he doesn’t.

He came. Because of her.

And she was moaning his name.

Doesn’t matter. His brain is stuttering like a bad motor, tires spinning. Doesn’t matter what happened. What happens now. God, he needs to… He needs to put his fucking _dick_ back in his _pants_ and he needs to find a way to clean this up before she gets up and sees it, sees him, knows what he did. It might still be okay.

He might yet be saved.

He puts his dick back in his pants - still sticky but whatever - and he’s considering the merits of just using his goddamn shirt to take care of the rest when her voice comes to him, low and still rough, and the world stops on its axis.

“Daryl?”

Exact wrong place. Exact wrong time.

She’s sitting up. She’s sitting up and facing the door. And she’s looking right at him.

He should fall to his knees. He should collapse and crawl to her and confess everything, beg her forgiveness, promise her it’ll never happen again. Beg her to stay with him even if he’s a piece of shit because the truth is that he literally doesn’t know how to live without her now.

That was true before he ever climbed those fucking stairs.

He’s clamping his eyes shut, biting back a groan of a very different kind, but she says his name again and it’s so soft.

No anger. None.

Somehow he manages a breath, and with the same jagged fragment of strength he opens his eyes and looks at her. She’s raising a hand and she’s beckoning him, and her face… She looks scared, maybe, a little.

But that’s not even close to all of it.

“C’mere,” she murmurs, and gives him the tiniest, sweetest smile he’s ever seen in his life. “Maybe we should talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand this is to the second prompt. Kind of. The two gelled together in my head to the point where I couldn't _not_ write this, is the point. 
> 
> Prompt in question: _Smut prompt: Awkward Daryl, first time Bethyl ZA sex. Preferably set in the ASZ._
> 
> Clearly it's not the ASZ, but I think we have the awkward thing, anyway. 
> 
> Just by the way, clearly I'm not the most unbiased observer, but this might now be one of my favorites of all my fics. So I hope you enjoy. ❤️

_Talk._

The very idea is alien. It’s beyond him. What it involves, what the connotations are, what the implications are given that she’s suggesting they do it after they’ve just been doing _what they’ve just been doing._ Looking at him like she is, all gentle expectancy, her hand outstretched to him. 

Naked. Naked, sunlight flushing her already flushed skin. Her nipples are the hue of antique roses, her hair a glorious golden tangle all around her shoulders. The candle is lying beside her on the mattress - the fucking _candle,_ it’s still _gleaming_ with the wet of her cunt - and when he looks at it his mouth is still flooding with how much he wants to taste her.

But mostly he can only look at her. Look at her body and do his own flushing as waves of shame crash over and through him, and he can try to meet her eyes and completely fail.

He’s standing here with his come sticky on his fingers - a glob of it on the fucking _door,_ Jesus fucking _Christ_ \- and she’s holding out her hand and she says maybe they should _talk._

About what, exactly? About what an utter piece of shit he is? About how it turns out he’s a pervert and shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near her? About how he’s fucked this up utterly beyond repair and she would like him to please go and find his own funeral home to be disgusting in all by himself? He looks down and clenches his filthy hand and squeezes his eyes shut, and he doesn’t know if he should or shouldn’t be fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to leave before she even has a chance to ask him to do so.

But her voice was so soft. Her eyes. That tiny smile.

She _smiled._

“Daryl,” she murmurs, and his eyes pop open and before he knows what he’s doing he’s meeting her gaze. Somehow not looking away this time. “Please.”

He has no idea how he’s supposed to say no to that. Even if he also no longer has any idea how forward movement works. He raises his clean hand and nudges weakly at the doorknob, figuring that a pathetic start is still a start, and when the door swings open with a low squeak of ancient hinges, he takes a step. And another.

Haltingly, he walks into that bright, warm room. Into her presence. And he’s looking down again, following the progress of his boots - a congealing drop of come on the right toe and all he wants to do is set himself on fire - but he can feel her attention as she tracks his approach. Feels it like a heavier beam of the sunshine through which he’s moving.

Fuck’s sake, he just wanted to tell her about the damn turkey.

Fifteen minutes ago he was so pleased with himself.

And then there he is.

He sees the dark, pitted wood of the floor. The worn eggshell lace of the bedskirt. The shining edge of a brass leg. His own fucking boots. He grits his teeth and narrows his focus to a crooked nail by his toe and waits for her to pass whatever judgment she’s intending.

“Hey.” And she’s reaching for his fucking _hand,_ grazing across his knuckles, and he jerks it away from her with a sharp hiss, his head snapping up and his eyes wide. That hand, where he can feel the tackiness of his come between his fingers - she is not fucking touching that. She’s not. She has to _know_ what he was just using that hand for _,_ what the fuck is she _doing?_

“Daryl, it’s okay.” His hip, then. She’s touching his hip, and he has the presence of mind to keep from cringing. She could always touch him before and it didn’t make him cringe. Long before now, that was true. She can still do it, he can still bear the weight of her hand, and it locks up his throat.

What the hell does she mean, _it’s okay?_

“Look at me,” she says, and it’s soft but there’s also steel in it. She’s not interested in a _no_ of any kind, spoken or silent. She’s commanding him, so he has to, and he raises his eyes from his hand and looks at her.

Those pretty pink lips, wet and slightly parted. The sounds she was releasing through them. His _name._

Even now, his name.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, and gives his hip a light squeeze. “I’m not mad. Alright? I swear, I’m not mad.”

This only gets less and less comprehensible. Now that he’s started looking at her again he apparently can’t stop, and he _gapes_ at her, speechless, too startled to be mortified any longer. And she’s so beautiful like this, sitting on the bed with her legs half folded beneath her, her nipples still tight and hard and the curls between her thighs glistening wet. The candle is a few inches from her left heel, and in his treacherous mind he’s bending and picking it up, lifting it to his mouth, sucking it clean of her.

It is not in any way, shape, or form _okay._

“I knew you were watchin’.” She hesitates, and he thinks of course she did, of _course_ she knew, which means she was moaning his name for his benefit except he can’t even begin to understand why the fuck she would be doing that, and then she knocks him flat on his ass.

“I… I liked it.” She swallows and her eyes flick down, and all at once she’s as red as a goddamn strawberry. _Blushing,_ when less than five minutes ago she was fucking herself with a candle while knowing perfectly well that he was there right outside the door. He gapes all over again. “You kinda freaked me out for a couple minutes, but I liked it. I did. That’s why I…” She trails off and gives the candle an awkward little half nod, a jerk of her chin. “I was already… And I figured you were watchin’ anyway, so I…” A smile as awkward as her nod, crooked and nervous, and that’s when he _gets_ it. Or begins to.

Their positions here actually aren’t so far removed.

That doesn’t really make him feel any better.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out as something stuck between a whisper and a croak. She’s shaking her head before he gets the last syllable out, but he knew she would and he doesn’t care; he has to say it. Because he _is._ He’s so fucking sorry, and no amount of _I liked it_ is going to change that.

He was watching her, and he didn’t ask her. He was watching her like _that_ and she never told him he could. What if she _hadn’t_ liked it? What then? What the fuck would he be?

Same damn thing he is now.

“You didn’t mean to.”

Like she _knows_ that? He can tell he’s looking at her like she’s absolutely insane, because at the moment she appears to be absolutely insane. It’s an insane thing to say. Because okay, sure, maybe he didn’t mean to see her in those initial few seconds, but he had every opportunity to walk swiftly away and get to work on forgetting about all of it and maybe immerse himself in something cold, and instead what he did was unzip his pants and take his dick in his hand and come all over the fucking _door._

Still in that thin croak: “I coulda _left._ ” He takes a breath and then another, finding some kind of center to stand on. “Beth, I- No one fuckin’ _made me stay there._ ”

 _Don’t you understand what a piece of_ shit _I am, you idiot?_

“But you didn’t come up here lookin’ to spy on me,” she persists with what seems like endless patience. Patience to the point of lunacy, though it’s not like that much is some kind of big surprise. “I know you didn’t. I _know_ you. You wouldn’t do that.”

Miserably, he shakes his head. No. It’s true. He didn’t. He wouldn’t have.

Which makes this even less excusable.

“I’m _not mad_ ,” she says again, and the last word breaks off in an exasperated laugh. Before he can stop her she seizes his hand and grips it tight and gives it a firm tug, her slender fingers so hot against the edge of his wrist. “Sit down. God, Daryl, sit _down_ or I _am_ gonna be mad at you, and you _are_ gonna be sorry.”

He sits down. Or he tries; it’s more of a vaguely controlled collapse onto the mattress, his hands limp between his knees and his head partially turned toward her, most of her obscured by the curtain of his hair. As if his head itself is trying to give her some privacy. Trying to protect her from him. Her sweet little breasts and the delightful swell of her hips. The way her nipples might feel under his thumbs. She’s naked, and as far as he can tell she doesn’t care at _all._

He’s not sure she knows what shame _is._

“I liked it.” This time her voice is lower, huskier, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her thighs squeezing briefly together. “I think you liked it too.” She pauses and it’s a long pause, and he lifts his head enough to see her slide the corner of her finger between her teeth. Nervousness, again. But that’s not all it is.

There’s heat behind her wide blue eyes.

“You came, didn’t you,” she murmurs, and he sucks in a hard breath which lodges in his throat, every part of him that wasn’t numb finally joining the rest of him. And she doesn’t _stop._ She just keeps on going, relentless as a fully loaded freight train. “I wanted you to. I wanted to make you come.”

“Beth…”

“I don’t know what I was thinkin’.” She’s rushing past him, rushing over the bloodless release of her name, and now she sounds almost _apologetic_ \- for Christ’s sweet sake - her hand falling onto her thigh and clenching the knuckles white. “I was just… We’ve been together for a while, and we’re here now, and I just… wanted you to feel _good,_ I wanted to…” She blinks up at him and something about it wrings at his heart. One of the few places left in him that can still feel anything.

“I came,” he says softly - before he can talk himself out of it - and she shivers suddenly and violently, and he watches it happen with a heavy ripple trembling through his nerves. “Beth, I…” _You were so beautiful. You_ are _so beautiful. Fuck, I don’t know how to say how beautiful you are._

This time when she finds his hand he doesn’t pull away. Not even when she threads her fingers through his, and she must be able to feel the come drying there. She’s _shameless,_ she is, in the best possible sense of the word, and not for the first time he wishes so much that he could be like her.

“In the kitchen, that night.” So soft that he almost can’t hear it, her gaze fallen and held by their clasped hands. Somehow all at once it doesn’t matter that she’s naked, and it doesn’t even matter what just happened. _In the kitchen, that night._ That night after which nothing much came of it. He said what he said and then didn’t say anything at all, found an excuse to get up and check the traps, and he never mentioned it again, and neither did she. But she wouldn’t have forgotten. She would have known he didn’t either.

Sitting in the sun with her now, he can feel the warmth of candle flames on his skin.

“That night. What you… What you said.”

Except he didn’t. He didn’t say anything, not aloud. But he _did._ He knows it. Even if he didn’t mean to, he looked at her in that light, so lovely bathed in gold, and said everything he needed to say.

Then he got up and walked away. Which he didn’t have to do. She didn’t tell him to go. He could have stayed with her, stayed and seen what might have come after _oh_ , and he didn’t.

_No one fuckin’ made me stay there._

“You make me happy,” she whispers, and she lifts her other hand and skates her fingertips down his jaw, feather-light, and he doesn’t fight the shudder that grips his spine. A shudder like an aftershock, an echo of the pleasure he was taking in her before. She gazes up at him and licks her lips, and that’s when he truly understands that he’s fucked. “You make me so happy, Daryl. That’s all. I just… I wanna make you happy too.”

 _But I’m a piece of_ shit.

But that voice is quieter now. Quieter all the time. Her voice is drowning it out, the sweet music that’s always inside her whether or not she’s singing. Other things are true here and they _matter,_ and that nasty little voice doesn’t fit with them.

He ignores it. Maybe it’s true and maybe not. This is also true, and he raises his clean hand and combs two fingers into her hair, pushing unruly cornsilk strands away from her face. Her naked in the sun, all that bare skin glowing like she collects the light. Her huge, clear eyes and her softly parted lips, and it’s like he’s back there again. That night, with her, and now he gets a chance to do things differently. He gets a chance to stay and see what happens.

His fingers are still sticky, intertwined with hers, and there’s still come on his goddamn boot and he’s a pathetic fucking excuse for a human being.

But maybe it really is okay.

“You do.” He traces the line of her jaw with a single fingertip, stopping at the point of her chin. _Oh._ “Girl, you make me happy every fuckin’ day.”

She breathes his name and then her mouth is on his, and there’s no transition. One simply melts into the other. Her mouth and her lips nudging his apart, and he moans as he opens to her, moans louder when he realizes the sharp bitter-sweetness on her lips and tongue is a lingering trace of her cunt. Her fingers tangle in his hair and his hand cups her jaw, tilting her head further as he pushes into her, and as she sucks at his bottom lip the wet sound bursts open the image of her spread wide with her fingers buried in her sopping cunt.

Abruptly he pulls back, gulping air. He _wants_ her, wants her with a ferocity he didn’t know existed an hour ago, but something like fear is clutching at his gut, and his body feels clumsy and stupid. What if she's…

 _What if this is a mistake. What if she’s sorry for it later. What if you_ don’t _make her happy. What if you say exactly the wrong thing. What if you do exactly the wrong thing. Exactly the wrong place, exactly the wrong time. What if you fuck this all up, because it’s only by her extraordinary grace that you haven’t already, and even extraordinary grace has limits._

“What?” Wide, anxious eyes. She’s lifting herself fully onto her knees and bracing a hand on his arm, staring at him - flushed and breathing a bit quicker than before. “Daryl, did-”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know. He’s an idiot. He’s an _idiot,_ and he’s fumbling for the words when she takes their joined hands and brings his to her breast, presses it against her.

Her perfect little tit under his spreading palm, her perfect little nipple fitting into the crease. What she was twisting, teasing, and he whimpers as he reflexively squeezes her and she arches slightly into the touch, still holding his hand in place. “You liked watchin’ me.” Her eyes are half-lidded, long lashes fluttering against her cheek. “You liked watchin’ me touch myself like this. You can. I want you to.”

_Jesus Christ._

He thought about her nipples under his thumbs. Now he watches himself, blood once more rumbling thunder, as he circles her with the edge of his nail, the rough pad, and she lets out a soft whine when he flicks at her in smooth back-and-forth strokes. Before, he noticed he was hard only after it was almost painful, and the same is true now: He’s aching against his fly, thick and humming with the roar of his heart, and he knows she sees it when her eyes widen and she gasps.

He feels like he should apologize for it, his hand freezing, and it’s ludicrous but he’s just beginning to stammer some kind of utter nonsense when her hand settles between his legs and cups him, and he pushes helplessly into it, the nonsense flowing into her name.

“I wanna touch you.”

He hisses, rocking up again when she frames his length and strokes him through the denim. “Y’are.”

“No, I wanna _touch_ you.” Suddenly she’s almost laughing, and he thinks _you fucking idiot_ , but she’s feeling for his zipper with her nimble fingers, tugging it down - it makes a noise weirdly like a growl. It’s him; everything is too loud. Everything is too bright, too sharp, and he jumps when her fingertips nestle inside his shorts and graze him, stroking awkwardly over what she can reach. “Like that.” She’s following her own movements, clearly fascinated, and all he can do is hold her tit and watch her too.

“God, Beth…”

“It’s so smooth,” she breathes, and he knows what’s happening here and he chokes back a gasp, releasing her tit and groping for her wrist, pulling her away. Again she’s staring at him, brow furrowed, and God, he _is_ fucking it up, but he can’t deal with this. It’s too much. He doesn’t know how.

“You never-”

“No.” She bites her lip, her wrist relaxed in his grasp. “I never. I want to. Now, with you.” She swallows and shuffles her knees apart, spreading her legs, and he moans a stricken _fuck, Beth_ as she reaches between them and works her fingers with soft, wet sounds. “I want you to be in me.”

Gradually he loosens his grip on her wrist. Because he should, this is all wrong, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say _no_ to that _._ But she’s Beth and she _never_ and he’s practically squirming as she holds his gaze and circles her fingers slowly over her clit, her legs wide enough for him to see the sheen on the insides of her thighs.

And he’s toeing off his boots, sliding further onto the bed. His body is taking over for his pathetic excuse for a central nervous system. He’s so scared. He can’t fucking breathe. But she said. He trusts her. Need is surging through him like magma, and she _wants him._

“You sure?”

He thinks she might laugh at him again. He would deserve it. He’s a ridiculous creature. There is no part of him that should be taken seriously. But she doesn’t; she sighs as she closes her own hand over her breast and rocks back on her heels, the sun catching and gilding each strand of her hair.

“I’m sure.”

“Oh… _Girl_.” It’s all he can think to say. He’s still clumsy and he’s still stupid and he’s fumbling at his jeans as she lowers herself to the bed and lies back - like she was, all sprawled and lazy and careless - her legs spread and her fingers teasing herself. He can _see,_ see her so much better than he could from behind the door: Her fat, suckable pussy lips, the swollen nub where they meet, her fingers dipping in to scoop up some of her juices and returning to her clit coated in her cream, as thick and milky as his own come.

“Take it out.” Her voice has taken on that strained tension he heard in her moans, almost like pain. But she also sounds so close to laughter. “I wanna see it.”

He’s already reaching in, breath hitching. Caged in his chest. He’s scared, yes, but he’s not far from laughter either. It’s like he’s passed through darkness and now he’s _with_ her, bathed in her light - and he can tease her. “See _what?_ ”

“ _Daryl._ ” An adorable little giggle floats out of her and she shoves her heel against the top of his thigh. “Your _cock._ ” She blushes all over again when she says it, her eyes bright. Excited.

“Ever have?”

She giggles again. “Yours? Not when it’s hard.”

“ _Jesus,_ girl.”

“I know. Ain’t what you meant.” She sighs, and all at once she looks nearly solemn. “Not- Not like this.”

Before, she gave him a kind of permission to draw himself out, and he has it again - has it _better:_ He tugs himself free with a hard exhale and cradles his cock in his hand, pushed up on his knees like she was. He’s _showing_ it to her, displaying himself, and he doesn’t feel like a piece of shit. It doesn’t feel wrong.

She gazes at him, at _it,_ and when she presses down on her clit the sound that escapes her is almost frightened.

Fuck, of course it’s not. Never that.

“Oh, God.” She noses a finger into her cunt, rocking her hips as her other fingers circle her nipple in rapid spirals. She wasn’t shy when he was in the hall and it shouldn’t surprise him now, that she’s this way. Blushing, but not shy. “Daryl… I want you, please…”

She’s watching as he starts to undress, fingering herself in slow, lazy slides. She’s staring, rapt, and at first he isn’t even thinking about it - about what he’s actually doing. She got a good look at his cock, and he didn’t end up sprinting for the door. But his shirt is over his head when it hits him, and he freezes with it in his hands, hunched, hair hanging in his face.

She’s _watching_ him.

“Daryl?” Soft. Concerned. Her foot nudges his knee and he raises his eyes to see her withdrawing her hand and sitting up, leaning in. “Are you alright?”

No. He’s not. He is, he _is,_ he’s so fucking all right, today has taken the most surreally wonderful turn he could have possibly imagined and he’s _dazed_ with it, but she’s looking at him like that, like no one in his life ever has, and she’s too beautiful. He’s rough and scarred and there are ugly stories beaten into his body, and she’s too beautiful to be looking at him this way.

Like she can’t look anywhere else.

He can’t tell her. Not now. Even if he wanted to, whatever words he could come up with would be hopelessly inadequate. He’ll never be able to truly explain it. He simply shrugs, balls the shirt up in his hands and rocks back on his heels. He’s absurdly self-conscious, half naked with his cock jutting out of his pants - which is apparently oblivious to the knots the rest of him is tying itself into.

“It’s just. It’s been a while.”

Not exactly the issue, but it’s not a lie.

“How long?”

He closes his eyes. “Long time.” _Never. Not like this._

“I’m guessin’ it’s not the kinda thing you forget how to do.” The gentlest teasing in the world, and before he can think of any coherent response she’s stroking warm fingers down his chest, stopping low on his sternum. “It’s alright. Daryl… I just want you. Just you. I don’t care about anythin’ else.”

Her hand lifts away and rises to his face, cups his cheek. Without stopping to wonder if it’s the right thing to do he’s nuzzling at her, lips against the edge of her palm, and she’s still talking. “You don't…” She laughs softly. “You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

“Couldn’t anyway,” he mutters. _You are._

“No, you couldn’t. So don’t worry about it.” His eyes open in time to catch the golden blur of her head as she pulls him in and arches her mouth over his, and the shirt is slipping out of his hands as they find their way into her hair, just as she reaches down and takes hold of his cock.

He stiffens. Then - _oh, fuck it_ \- he just keeps kissing her.

She handles him carefully, a little hesitant, weighing him in her palm and curving her hand around his shaft as if measuring his thickness. There’s nothing practiced about the touch - she’s not trying to make it so. She’s exploring him, taking her time, feeling the give and pull of his foreskin, swiping a wet thumb across the head and drawing a deep shudder out of him, something that makes her smile against his lips.

“You feel good, Daryl.”

“I…” She keeps knocking him speechless, stealing the miniscule amount he has to work with, but this time instead of scrambling to recover he lowers a hand to cover hers, lightly directing her fingers. Tighter. A long, hard stroke from base to head, and a delighted gasp escapes her when he twitches in her palm.

“Like that?”

He nods, half leaning on her, leaving a trail of wet, clumsy kisses down her jawline. “Like that.”

She grins and his hand falls away from hers as she strokes him again, faster. “I’m gettin’ good at this.”

And he has nothing to say to that. He merely breathes a laugh as another shudder takes him, and when his hand slips between her legs and his fingers drift over coarse, damp curls, her shudder matches his and she lets out a breathless moan.

“Can I-?”

“Oh God.” Her laugh sounds closer to a sob, and she spreads her legs wider, her thumb sweeping up the underside of his shaft. “Yeah. Please. _Please-_ ” It _is_ a sob as his fingertip circles her clit, careful and easy - and no, he doesn’t think he’s forgotten how at least some of this works. He thinks he remembers the basics.

But no experience in his fucking life could have prepared him for the wet heat of her pussy as he slowly pushes into her.

“Oh my _God,_ ” she whines, nearly strangled at the last word, but he’s not worrying. Not about that. He pulls her back in and kisses her, slow as his finger inside her, mapping the inside of her mouth with his tongue as he thrusts into her tight fist. It’s a blur of mouths and hands and her so wet she’s practically dripping into his palm, her skin searing against his and her sharp little teeth nipping under his chin. He doesn’t mean to be fucking her but he is, the end of his finger curving against the rough patch he can feel on her wall, and suddenly she’s whimpering and losing her rhythm, gripping him by his cock and his arm and tipping her head back with her lips parted wide and shining in the sunlight.

All of her, shining.

“Come, Beth.” Words finally there but not because he was looking for them, heavy growling. “You come for me, _fuck,_ I wanna see you, I wanna see you come…”

_Again._

He _feels_ it happen, feels her muscles fluttering around his knuckle as her moans strain and strain to a breaking point and she releases his cock to cling to his neck. Her spine bows, spasms, and she comes with a short, jagged cry, so _wet,_ hot and sticky all over his fingers. It’s actually him doing it now, actually _here,_ and whatever he’s afraid of, he can be afraid of it later. There’s only her and her body sagging backward, shaking, and he lowers her down and follows her with his finger still moving in her.

She’s whispering something as he settles over her with his half forgotten cock trapped against her hip and his jeans fallen low on his thighs. He bends, her lips brushing his ear as he listens, and a groan rakes up his throat.

_Two. I want two._

A second, lower cry falls from her swollen lips as he adds a second finger to the first, feels her stretch around him, and for a horrible second he’s sure he’s hurt her. But she’s grappling at his wrist and rolling her head, holding him there between her legs and hissing _it’s good, I’m fine, I’m fine, oh Daryl_ and he believes her.

But he’ll go slow. Gentle as he can be, sighing when she tightens around him, releases, tightens again. He leans up on one elbow and watches her, every twist of her features as they contort into something like pain and smooth into deep pleasure, her face turning toward the sun. He thought she was beautiful before, sprawled and almost decadent in the light, and now beneath him her skin is shining with sweat, her hair a damp mess with strands stuck to her forehead and temples, and he fucks her tight, slick cunt with his fingers and gazes at her in what he dimly recognizes as awe.

The sun doesn’t just touch her face; it streams down all of her, her graceful curves and harder angles, the swells of her tits capped with those sweet little nipples, her belly and waist lengthening and contracting as she rolls her hips with his hand. Somehow it’s like his attention is everywhere at once, soaking her like the sunlight, and he catches both the stutter in her hips and the grimace seizing her mouth as she clutches his wrist and gasps _oh my God, go faster, like that, like that, oh Daryl, oh._ Her other hand is pushing under his and at first he’s confused; then he shifts to make room for her fingers on her clit, rubbing herself in unsteady circles and thumping her head back against the pillow as she comes _again_. It’s a softer wave that washes over her, lifts her and tumbles her down, and she collapses in a loose pile of limbs, breath coming in sobbing heaves.

“That’s so good.” She’s fumbling weakly for him, smiling as tears gather at the corners of her eyes. They don’t alarm him. He knows better. “Oh my… Daryl, that’s so good, you’re so _good…_ ” She turns her head and buries her face in the hollow of his throat, and her lips are still moving. _So good. So good._

Yes, she is.

She gasps and stiffens when he slides his fingers out of her, but then she’s falling back into the boneless thing he’s made of her, and he lifts his hand and examines it in the light. She’s slicked him nearly to the wrist, more thick, milky streaks and beaded strands when he spreads his fingers. Yet again he moves without thinking. Her breast is right there, inches from his face, and he touches it with a glistening fingertip and paints her with her juices, coats the dark pink skin with a thin film, and as she’s raising her head to see what he’s doing, he leans in and closes his lips around her nipple, sucking her clean.

She groans and he hears the quiet thump as her head falls back against the pillow. He smiles, swirls his tongue, glazes her a second time and licks that up too.

He wanted to suck her juices off her fingers. He can suck his own, when he’s done with this. But this is so much better.

This is all so much better.

For a moment he just lies there with her, using his mouth on her in a way that feels almost soothing to him more than anything else, but she gives another one of those trembling sighs and snakes her hand between them, wriggling to his cock and curling around him with her thumb sweeping over the head.

“I love how you get wet for me,” she whispers, and he shivers as his tongue flicks at her salty skin. She sounds happy. _You make me so happy._ “Do you wanna be in me?”

He bites at her, no fear left in him, and she squeaks and it’s adorable. “Fuck, yeah.”

“Tell me.” She’s pushing at him and he lifts himself off her and kneels again, dragging at his waistband with those stupid, clumsy fingers as he gazes down at her, her nipple wet from his spit and her juices and a spreading dark spot on the sheet beneath her sopping cunt. He gets his jeans to his knees and just then she reaches down and spreads her lips apart like she did with the candle, all delicate pink with that semi-translucent trickle running into the crack of her ass. “Tell me what you’re gonna do to me.”

He whimpers and half crumples to the side as all the blood rushes out of his muscles, has to catch himself one-handed on the mattress. He thought she was so innocent once. A kind of innocence, anyway. And maybe she is, but she’s also _shameless,_ and there’s a wicked sparkle in her clear blue eyes.

Can’t say no. That’s why he’s here in the first place. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

“ _Ohh_ …” She fists the sheet, spreading herself wider. “When I was… I was usin’ the candle, I was thinkin’ about you.”

“You ever think about me before?”

She nods, and he clenches his jaw so hard it sends pain lurching up to his temples as he struggles to kick his pants away without taking his eyes off her. “Lots of times. I’d…” Another giggle, and she’s so cute he could eat her alive. “I’m good at doin’ it real quiet. So you didn’t know.”

“ _Shit,_ girl.”

“Once I came and you were a couple feet away,” she breathes. That wicked sparkle is snapping bright like a campfire. “Couldn’t have been more than a yard.”

He’s naked. Naked, looming over her now, and all that fear should be rushing back. He’s _naked,_ bathed in sunlight just like she is, and she can see everything. He honestly doesn’t remember when he was last fully naked with anyone. And she’s _her,_ she’s utterly perfect even if he’ll never be.

But she’s looking at him like she can’t believe he’s real. It stretches back his lungs like a bowstring, and he takes his twitching cock in his hand as he bends and braces himself up on the other. “So I coulda been watchin’ you this whole time.”

“I want you to watch me.” She passes her wet little tongue across her lips and takes a quivering breath. “Tell me again.”

He used to falter with the words. He used to trip over them. “I’m gonna fuck your pussy, Beth.”

“Oh my God.” She clamps her hands on his upper arms, digging her nails into his biceps, and the sting only throbs deeper into him. “Now. Do it now.”

This part is simple. This part, he thinks he can manage, and he actually believes he can make it good for her.  Might be better than a candle, even, and the thought is almost twisting him into laughter as he lowers himself and strokes the head of his cock over her lips, wetting himself even if he doesn’t need it, even if his own precome is dripping down his knuckles.

“Slow, girl,” he breathes, and as she whines and clamps her legs around the backs of his thighs, he sinks into her.

His name rips out of her in a hoarse cry, and once more he might be worried he’s hurting her, but all he can feel is her wonderful scorching _inferno_ of a pussy, tight around him and loosening and tight as she squirms and arches and traps him with those powerful legs. He screws his eyes shut and drops his forehead against hers and groans through his bared teeth as he pushes deeper and deeper, bottoming out before he withdraws and pushes in again. Slow, like he said, but it’s so hard to be slow, so hard to resist slinging her legs over his shoulders and pounding her into the bed.

She could take it. He knows she could.

“Is it-?” But she cuts him off, tossing her head from side to side and moaning words he can barely understand.

“It’s so good. Jesus, Daryl, it’s so _good,_ you feel so… Your _cock,_ oh my God, don’t stop, don't…”

Fuck slow. “C’mere, sweetheart.” And he’s sliding an arm under her and lifting her to meet him as she clutches his shoulders, moving in smooth, hard thrusts. With each one she clenches like a fist around his shaft and her lips seem to suck at him on the way back, like her cunt is trying to keep him inside. He’s squelching in her just like the candle did, wet smacks over their harmonized moans, and he’s fucking her, _sweet Jesus God,_ he’s fucking her and she’s _loving_ it and he doesn’t know why it took him so long.

It’s okay.

He’s not going to last and he isn’t going to try. Not now. She was enjoying herself when she was playing, teasing but denying herself nothing, and maybe he can’t do that but he _can_ allow himself to be selfish. Just a little. Lose himself in the soft perfection of her pussy, biting at her collarbones and the base of her throat as he laps sweat off her burning skin.

 _Fuck me_. Like he’s given her the go-ahead to say it. Like he’s made her bold. _Fuck my pussy, Daryl, just like that, oh_ shit, _I love it. I love your cock._

_I love you._

It’s the trigger. Trigger like a punch out of nowhere. She did this to him before and she does it now, and he wrenches out of her with a ragged shout and jerks himself over her belly, spurting almost to her ribs as she shoves up on her elbows and gasps _Daryl, oh my_ God _oh my God,_ and he watches, stunned, as she plunges her hand down and catches some of it on her fingers.

And he nearly collapses on her when she brings it to her mouth and licks at it. Cautious… Then not so cautious at all.

He does collapse. Not on her. He lands next to her and turns onto his side, staring at her and fighting to focus as she trails her fingers through the come spattered thick across her skin, streaking it idly over her stomach in swooping arcs and curves. There’s a strange little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and - moving like he’s been knocked into an especially vivid hallucination - he traces a fingertip along the seam of her lips.

She licks at him. Seals those pretty, plump lips briefly around him and sucks, and he has to close his eyes. Reeling.

Remembering.

_I love you._

He really doesn’t think he imagined it.

There’s paralysis. But it doesn’t last. Even if he _did_ imagine it, they’ve been shooting various kinds of permission at each other for the last hour, and he’s too exhausted for walls. He presses close and lays a hand over her breast, her nipple still peaked under it and his cheek against the knob of bone at the top of her shoulder.

“I love you.”

Because it’s true.

“Oh,” she breathes, and then that smile isn’t so little anymore, and she’s rolling to face him, still all sticky with his come and hers, and she tips their brows together. “ _Oh._ ”

 _You make me happy, Beth._ He raises his head slightly, his lips against her forehead, and he isn’t sure whether or not he’s saying it aloud, and it doesn’t matter. _You make me so happy, sweetheart. Girl, you make me happier than I’ve ever been in my goddamn life._

He slides a leg between hers. She drapes an arm over his waist. They doze for a while in the warm sun, which she called him into and in which she blessed him.

At some point she stirs and shifts until she’s lying partially on top of him, snuggling into his chest, and he wraps both arms around her and kisses the crown of her head. “Sure it’s okay?” he murmurs.

She smiles against him. “Stop.”

“Alright.”

“In fact.” She raises her head and pillows her chin on the back of her hand, studying him with a speculative expression as her fingers wander aimlessly down his ribs. “You can watch me again if you want.” She flashes a quick grin, that wickedness sneaking in around the edges. “Don’t see why I gotta close the door now. You can watch me anytime.”

He pulls gently at a lock of her hair. “You say that, girl, and I will.” He can laugh about it now, even if it’s just in his head. He’s not a perverted piece of shit. Can’t be. It’s just not possible. Beth Greene wouldn’t fuck a perverted piece of shit in a million years.

“Don’t see why it matters whether or not I close the door at all,” she says softly, and kisses the ridge of his collarbone. “You’re gonna be in here with me tonight.”

 _Oh._ “That so?”

“Mmhmm. And all the rest of ‘em.”

“What if I fought you on that?”

She nips him. “I’d win.”

“Yeah, you always do.” He hums quietly, stroking her hair. This shouldn’t feel so natural. This shouldn’t feel like something he’s always known about. Like something he was just waiting to do. “You don’t fight fair.”

“Can’t.” She lays her head down again, settling with a deep sigh, and he echoes it. Even the air tastes sweeter. It tastes like her. “You’re bigger.”

“You’re younger.”

Another smile, slow and lazy. “Maybe it’s a draw, then. We both win.” She pauses a moment, and he can feel her thinking. “What’d you come up for, anyway?”

“Oh, shit.” His eyes snap open and he lifts his head. He was so excited to show her. He was so pleased with himself. He was sure he fucked that up.

Apparently he didn’t fuck up anything.

“Turkey.”

She stares at him. Blinks, clearly nonplussed, her mouth hanging loose for a few seconds. “ _What?_ ”

“Got a turkey.” He tugs at her hair again, and it feels like all his insides are trying to dance out through his skin. He’s never felt like this. Never in his life. “You like turkey?”

“You’re _kiddin’._ ”

He shakes his head. “Go see for yourself.”

“ _Daryl._ ” All at once she’s rolling away from him and upright with astonishing quickness, her bare feet hitting the floor and thumping across it as she trots, gloriously naked and glowing with sun and sex, for the door. For a few seconds he can only gaze at her; then he’s up and following, just as naked and caring no more than she seems to.

It’s the end of the fucking world and there’s a turkey. He sees no reason at present - and maybe later he’ll change his mind and freak out but whatever - why clothes should matter.

He could have walked away this time and he didn’t. He stayed. No one made him stay. It was his choice. So tomorrow he’s going to wake up and he won’t be hungry and afraid, and he’ll be with her. And they’ll just live. And they’ll make it work.

And they’ll be all right. It’s nuts, but they will be.

And later he’ll deal with the goddamn door.


End file.
